Blog of Tammy Patton (Suspense) and Tammy J. Palmer (Romance)

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I’m Leaving. On a jet plane. Don’t know when I’ll be back again. Not for sure anyway. Probably in two weeks—that’s when the return flight is scheduled. If this baby decides to stay where he/she is for more than two weeks, I might have to extend my vacation time. Sorry in advance, fellow co-workers, for any inconvenience this may cause, but a grandma’s got to do, what a grandma’s got to do. I did give the baby instructions to arrive on March 13th or 14th. We’ll see how well he/she follows directions.
On our last visit, I started getting HE vibes but the baby’s gender matters not at all to this grandma. I’m still getting used to that word. Grandma. My mom is Grandma. My mother-in-law is Grandma. How can I be Grandma? Doesn’t seem possible. We have discussed other possible titles. Grammy? Nana? Granny? Gram? Gran? Mammy. Mammy Tammy. How’s that for a title?
Hm. I don’t know…
I’ll fill you all in soon enough. There’s no Internet on my daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law’s property so it won’t be too soon. There’s no television either. I’m excited about that. I like quiet. It’s a peaceful place, with a great view of the stars at night, and snow-topped mountains, in the daytime. And so quiet. Or at least it will be until this baby starts crying…
I can’t wait.

I had one of those vivid, way too real dreams last night. I was in Fred Meyer, where I very rarely shop, and I put a tube of toothpaste in my back pocket, intending to buy it, but Jim and the kids were already outside, waiting for me, as we were on our way to a softball game. In my haste, I forgot about the toothpaste and walked out the door.

There was a security guard standing in the entryway, watching. He took me by the arm and led me back inside. I calmly explained that I was having a spacy moment and forgot it was in my pocket. Haha. Sorry about that. He wasn’t buying it.

I was taken to a small room and told to sit down at a table while he filled out the paperwork. I wanted to call Jim and explain where I was, but I couldn’t find my phone. Or my purse. He had to be looking for me. We were going to miss the game. Or else, he’d go without me, while I was being carted off to prison.

I woke up before I had put on the orange jumpsuit. It was kind of disappointing actually. I wanted to meet the crew of Orange is the new Black. We finished Season One last night and I was looking up the actresses to see what they are like in real life.

This, from someone who never turns the TV on when she’s home by herself. I blame Netflix for slowing down progress on my series. On the other hand, the way these shows are written does give me good ideas for my own work.

Has this ever happened to you? You try on a bra, and it fits fine and feels comfortable—until you get home. Or worse, until you get to work. And find yourself twisting around in awkward positions, resisting the constant need to adjust it. And when you do finally manage to duck down out of sight and make the adjustment, it doesn’t do a bit of good. No matter how many times you contort your body and tug on the straps, it just isn’t right. It might even make you wonder if the clerk pulled a fast one and switched bras while you were focused on the card reader.

Or, as in my case, she might have made the switcheroo while engaging me in an asinine conversation about how many times one should wear the same bra before washing it. Only once, according to her boyfriend, who can’t stand to see her wearing the same bra two days in a row because it’s ‘gross’ like wearing the same underwear again. To this, I replied that no, it really isn’t the same. Only later, did I wish I’d suggested it might be less hassle to find a new boyfriend than to go through the whole process of trying on and purchasing, new bras. But maybe she doesn’t try them on. Maybe it’s all a part of the conspiracy. She keeps the good bras, the ones her customers tried on, for herself. Yes, I think that must be it.

I must get revenge. I know, I’ll find out the name of her boyfriend and tell him she’s wearing pre-worn bras, which, is, of course, far grosser than the wearing her own two days in a row…

Or maybe I’ll use her boyfriend in a story. He could be one of my protagonist’s odd, ex-boyfriends. Yeah, that’s it. Now, I’d better head back to my fictional world, where I belong…

I’m kind of hooked on Netflix now. With my work schedule being wonky I’ve never been able to follow a show from week to week. Watching a continuing show is almost as fun as getting lost in a particularly good novel.

We just finished Season One of Stranger Things. I’m glad I waited to watch it. This way it will be fresh in my mind when Season Two Starts. My favorite part was the boys, who, it seemed to me, actually talked and acted like real middle -school- age boys. I just read in the Oregonian that they’re older than they look, which makes their acting, even more impressive. Or maybe not. I guess 16 is not too old to remember what it was like to be 13 again. But in the eighties. Those high-waisted jeans bring back all kinds of bad memories! Those of us without waists could never find any jeans that fit properly. I had to buy boy jeans, which wasn’t all bad. I have fond memories of my shrink-to-fit 501’s. I can’t say I miss eighties hair. The Mom in Stranger Things is a good example of some strange hair…

I’m trying to write, but I keep staring out the window at the relentless rain, thinking of all those FB posts looking forward to Fall. Me, I’ll take sunshine and shorts over a sweater and a Pumpkin Spice whatever, any day.

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So, a few nights ago I dreamt that I was having one of those home parties, the kind I vowed to never have again because I’m not into the whole ‘persuade your friends to buy stuff’ thing, only this party was a bit different. The woman who came to my house was selling baby food and fancy marijuana joints, that looked like jewelry. I selected the blue and silver joint, but passed on the baby food—it wasn’t organic.

And then there’s last night’s dream. I was working, though it didn’t resemble my store, and Flo from Progressive was supposed to be making a delivery but no -one would open the back door for her so she left a dozen fifty -pound bags of granulated sugar outside. I was assigned the job of bringing them inside. It was about this time that I woke up with a deep ache in my lower back. I’m thinking there was a connection. It should also be noted that five weeks ago I gave up processed sugar. Do those bags represent all the sugar I would have eaten in the last month? If so, my subconscious mind was exaggerating a bit. I’m not that bad of a sugar addict! As for Flo, that explanation is simple; we watch too much television in the evenings.

It occurs to me that the mind is a strange place. Mine might be a little stranger than most. Lately, it has needed a whole lot of rest and relaxation. I’ve eased up on computer time and even on writing time, in the last month or so to focus on taking better care of myself. I think we can all benefit from unplugging now and then and spending more time in nature. A walk in the woods can greatly improve your outlook on life. Same goes for reading a good book, or two, or ten.

Happy Eclipse-apocalypse everyone! And remember, don’t look directly into the sun. It will make you go blind and grow hair on your palms. Or was that something else? Um, nevermind.

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So, I’ve been reading a book of short stories by B.J. Novak. It’s called One More Thing. I’d never heard of the guy before I picked up his book in one of the free library boxes in my neighborhood. Turns out, he wrote, directed and produced The Office, which I’ve never actually watched. I’ve been enjoying his stories, though. Well, most of them anyway. A few have had me scratching my head thinking, “Huh?” My favorites have made me laugh out loud. Julie and the Warlord, was funny. It was a different story that really got me thinking.

This one is about the mathematician who came up with a story problem about trains that was then used in every math book in every math class all over the country. Math is not my favorite subject, by any means, but the idea of the story is that most everyone is known for something in their lifetime. According to the author, it really is only one, or maybe two things in our life. For some reason this made me think of a girl I went to grade school with. Her name was Jackie Crapser. She was an ordinary looking girl with blonde hair. We weren’t close friends and if it wasn’t for the ‘one thing’ she did, I doubt I’d remember her at all. (Though such an unfortunate last name is hard for a child to forget.)

This was back in the days when the kids who were differently abled or mentally challenged, were all thrown into a class and labeled simply as, retarded. On the playground, these children either went off alone or stuck together. They had to, as they were either targeted for teasing and tormenting or else, simply ignored. One day, by the tetherball, Jackie changed everything. She started a game of tag with the kids from the special class. It was a daring move, or so I believed at the time. Wasn’t she afraid the other kids would make fun or her? Obviously, she wasn’t. It didn’t take long for others to see that Jackie was having a good time. Pretty soon, other kids joined in. Our playground, for a time, became a place where inclusion, rather than exclusion, was the ‘cool’ thing to do. All because one little girl dared to be kind.

That’s how I remember it anyway.

If you’re still out there somewhere Jackie, I want you to know that at least one person remembers you for something positive. (I sincerely hope you are alive and well, and will be remembered for many other good things.)

As for me, I’m writing about a schoolyard bully who grew up to be a sociopath and is seeking revenge on his favorite victims— the ones who once dared to fight back. Now, I’d better get back to torturing my imaginary friends… um, I meant writing.

Every once in a while I’ll see someone, usually a customer, and think, hey, he/she looks exactly like so and so. And then I’ll remember that so and so is a figment of my imagination, and worry that maybe I’m not normal. Then I remember that normal is boring and go back to daydreaming about my story and my imaginary friends.

Recently, I had another experience where my imaginary world collided with the real one. I’m working on a series of suspense/psychological thrillers that take place in the fictional town of Grandville. The town is modeled after my hometown in Oregon. We lived a few miles out of town on a country road and some of my friends owned horses. While my attempts at horseback riding usually involved me hanging on for dear life with my eyes shut I still enjoyed being around the beautiful animals.

One of the two main characters in my work in progress (Current title: A Convincing Accident) works as a Ferrier. While I knew it was the perfect occupation for him, I also knew I should do a bit more research on the subject. So, what happens? Only weeks before visiting our daughter in Colorado, she tells me about her new friend, who happens to be a Ferrier. Not only was he willing to talk about his job, and answer questions, he invited us to come along and watch him shoe a horse. (Thanks again Isaac!)

The experience helped me to know my character better. When you write about someone who is quite a bit different than yourself, you need to know as much about them as possible. I’m a firm believer that what a person does for money does not define them, but obviously, it does matter. It’s also important for plotting purposes. I now know that if he’s late for a job, no one will be shocked. (Of course, no one is shocked when I’m late for work either, but that’s a different story. Smiles sheepishly.) Waiting for the Ferrier is kind of like waiting for the cable guy or the plumber—you’d better leave the whole day open. (On the positive side, there will be no visible butt cracks for your viewing displeasure. A Ferrier is likely going to be wearing Wrangler jeans, which actually fit properly. Admission: I may have had a crush on a cute wrangler-wearer once upon a time, but he never did ask me out. Hm. Maybe this where my cowboy character originated.) Anyway, I also learned that the job is even more physically demanding than I suspected. Muscles required. (Always good to have a reason to put muscle on a male character. Not like those romance heroes who have them for no particular and not once is it even hinted they might actually go to the gym and work out.)

There was another, even stranger, almost spooky coincidence during my trip to Colorado. We spent one night at the ranch where my daughter did a work-trade the summer before. It was a fun experience (we slept in a yurt, my daughter in a teepee.) We were invited to dinner by our hosts. Not only was the food delicious, the conversation was interesting, even when they discussed religion. I kept my opinions to myself, not surprisingly. When there are more than three people in a room I tend to go into listening mode. (In the eighth grade my homeroom teacher named me “The Silent Observer.” It’s still appropriate in certain situations.) Anyway, one of the women who works on the ranch told a story about her son. When he was fourteen he got into a fight with another boy. Unlike the movies where pounding the bully to a pulp will earn you praise from everyone—including the adults— in the real world, (at least in modern times) it gets you assault charges and possibly a conviction that can hang on and haunt you for years.

Well, it just so happens that this is exactly what happens in my book, to my Ferrier guy. In fact, the whole story is hinged on this event. A fight, at fourteen, has a profound effect on the rest of his life. Turns out, the bully who received the (arguably) well-deserved beating is not the forgetting or forgiving type. He’s seeking revenge, many years later, in the form of inflicting “emotional destruction,” on the boy who hurt him, and the girl he was defending. So, there you have it, the premise for A Convincing Accident. Does it sound intriguing?

Why did you let me go on for so long anyway? I should be writing the book!

So, I’m waiting on a ‘gentleman’ and one of his coupons vanishes into thin air. He tells me it was for the eggs so I grab an ad to find the coupon. I don’t see it right away because I’m looking at the strip on the edge of the ad where the coupons usually are, but this one was in the middle.

The crusty old geezer, er, I mean gentleman, spots it first and says to me, “you should read more.”

Now, I’m pretty sure this was meant to be an insult. It’s not the worst I’ve heard, as far as customer insults go. Not by a long shot. I pretended not to hear him and kept on scanning because I am a professional. I do not respond to rude comments with other rude comments. I only think about it. I think real loud sometimes, willing them to hear my thoughts, but I don’t say it.

This is what I wish I’d said, “Sir, you are absolutely right, I’m going home right now to read the suspense novel I’m in the middle of.”

I would then tear off my apron, and throw it at him on my way out.

I am reading a good book. It’s by Sophie Hannah, a new author for me. I had to buy a new book yesterday because the only thing worse than being stuck in an airport for half a day longer than expected is being stuck in an airport with nothing to read. Or in this case, nothing fun to read. The book I brought along turned out to be too depressing. After a very fun weekend with my daughter, meeting her friends and seeing the sites in beautiful Colorado, I did not want a sad story bringing me down. I also didn’t want to be in the Denver airport for an extra five hours. It would have been closer to eight hours if we hadn’t been on stand-by and gotten lucky. And all because a certain airline, whose name I will not mention (United) can’t seem to keep to their schedule, which makes the whole connecting flight thing a bit difficult. The only flights they got right were the two that I ran, full speed, huffing and puffing, through the airport to catch, only to find a closed gate. I am proud to say I did not scream obscenities at the gatekeeper. I only muttered them, and politely complained to customer service. Actually, I might not have been real polite the second time it happened, but seriously? Twice in one trip?

I know the United employees are just doing what they are told to do because they need a paycheck and health insurance, like everyone else. I know what it’s like to be the one dealing with angry or annoyed customers over one thing or another, things that ultimately are the fault of higher ups. (Maybe not my inability to spot a coupon, but, um, other things). It’s the big guys who should be on the receiving end of our wrath, but they hide in their offices behind big desks and leave their employees to deal with the crap. It is the way of big business everywhere.

It’s enough to make me dream of escaping the rat-race altogether. It isn’t just Alaskan Bush people who choose to live off grid, and do things their own way. I don’t know about all of Colorado but in the county where my daughter lives there are few restrictions on the kind of house you can build. Tiny houses, teepees, tents, or even one of these:

My daughter’s friend built this. It’s a Hogan, modeled after the kind the Navaho lived in. I think it’s pretty cool. While I may not be ready to live without electricity, or indoor plumbing, I get why some people choose to escape the daily grind and live by their own rules. I think, as a society, we accept too much, and think too little. We believe we have to live a certain way, simply because it’s what everyone else is doing. Most people never get beyond middle school mentality. Must fit in at all costs! There are other ways of doing things.